


Nighttime wanderings

by ThisShipHasSails



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 16:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17349068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisShipHasSails/pseuds/ThisShipHasSails
Summary: So during these first nights of traveling with that madwoman in a box, as he used to call the Doctor in his head, he came up with a ritual that he still at times resorts to when he cannot sleep.





	Nighttime wanderings

Graham had always been a sound sleeper. That is, until Grace died, and he suddenly found himself waking up at odd hours in the middle of the night, unable to pinpoint exactly what had woken him, but equally unable to go back to sleep in a bed that suddenly seemed too big. Sometimes when he woke, he could still remember remnants of dreams of happier times. Other times he swore he could feel the ghost of her touch lingering on his cheek, and he was almost glad to know that sleep would evade him for the next couple of hours. 

He’s a strong man, but there’s a limit to how many heartbreaks a night he can take. 

So during these first nights of traveling with that madwoman in a box, as he used to call the Doctor in his head, he came up with a ritual that he still at times resorts to when he cannot sleep. A cup of tea from the TARDIS kitchen in hand, he would make his way up to Star Deck Number 3, which isn’t the largest one on the ship, as the Doctor has explained to him several times over, but which features what must be the comfiest armchair he has ever sat in, with a view of the stars to rival any in the known ( _and unknown!_ , he hears the Doctor’s proud voice in his head) universe.

Despite the exhaustion from their latest adventure, which involved being chased by a murder of what looked like three-headed crows (for which, to be fair, the Doctor had apologised profusely, once they were all safely back inside the TARDIS and had caught their breaths), the lack of sleep does not surprise him. It’s always after particularly exciting trips that he finds it difficult to nod off. He just cannot help thinking that she would have loved every second of it all. On bad nights, he wishes they could swap places, thinks it would be easier to be the one mourned than to do the mourning, and that she would be more deserving of all the incredible sights and experiences he has been granted by some cruel stroke of fate.

But on good nights, he promises her that he will be worthy of it all – and most of all of her love.

Tonight is a good night, and as he enters the kitchen, he is pleasantly surprised to find a steaming mug of tea already waiting for him. He takes a tentative sip and finds it to be exactly as he likes it: strong to the point of bitter, were it not for the splash of milk. He looks around surreptitiously, but as he finds himself quite alone, he approaches the nearest wall and pats it awkwardly. He has seen Yaz do this several times, and although he still cannot quite wrap his mind about the reality of a space- and timeship, let alone a sentient one, his mother has raised him to be polite, and it never hurts to say thank you, particularly when the tea is this good.

He treads carefully as he makes his way up the stairs, down the hallway and onto the star deck. He doesn’t want to spill the tea, but he also doesn’t want to wake up the others. Ryan would be worried, though trying not to show it, and the Doctor would make such a fuss that it would be quite impossible for any of them to get back to sleep any time soon. And the look in Yaz’s eyes would be too sympathetic for him to quite bear at this moment. He knows that Grace would want him to share his pain, and he does so often, but he also knows that it’s sometimes just easier to be alone.

Except that he isn’t.

In his silent concentration, he only realises this when he catches a slight movement from the corner of his eye as he approaches his armchair. He almost drops his tea and his heart misses a couple of beats, but when he turns his head sharply, the sight before him makes him smile rather than scream.

He realises that the movement must have been the Doctor’s arm slipping off the purple sofa in her sleep. The sofa had appeared next to what he has come to think of as _his_ armchair a couple of nights ago, and it made him realise that he wasn’t alone in his desire to see the stars, nor in his solitary nightly wanderings.

Except that the Doctor isn’t alone now. 

Lying half on top of her and sleeping as soundly as the Time Lord is Yaz. Her head on the Doctor’s shoulder and her arm across her body, she is tucked in between the Doctor and the sofa’s back rest, with the Doctor’s left arm holding her close. 

They look content and peaceful in their slumber and so safe in each other’s arms that it makes Graham’s heart swell with happiness for his friends and longing for his wife. 

In order to distract himself from his own feelings, he grabs the woollen blanket from his armchair and carefully tucks the two women in. He thinks that he hears a faintly mumbled “thank you” from the Doctor, but he might have imagined it, as she never opens her eyes. He watches as she turns her head towards Yaz to cuddle up impossibly closer to the younger woman, and then he straightens his back and turns to leave.

And as he does, he thinks that sleep might just be a bit easier to find this time round.


End file.
